Corey Johnson

              The day after I posted last week, tragedy struck a sweet family in our congregation. Corey Johnson, 40 years old, died suddenly and unexpectedly in her sleep, leaving a loving husband and four children, ages 8 to 17. I offered to bring a meal over for them and their visiting family on Friday; I spent all afternoon on it, very therapeutic.

              The funeral yesterday was beautiful, though achingly sad. Corey made ‘best friends’ everywhere she went. Four of them spoke wonderful eulogies and a women’s ensemble of about 30 'best friends' sang her favorite Randy Newman song, “Feels Like Home”. In the foyer there was a slide show and photo display. My favorite item was a wooden block that announced, “You call it chaos, I call it family.” I remember that stage of life.

              Cort and Corey grew up in Great Falls, Montana, met when Corey was 15, and have been madly in love for 25 years.

              I sit on my kitchen porch as I write. A robin is perched on a leafy bush, flitting from one branch to another, then hops down onto the cracked asphalt driveway. It's not a robin; it’s more slender, with a speckled, dusky-golden breast. As I lengthen my gaze to look out over our large circular driveway, there’s another, similar bird and, on the lawn beyond, are two actual robins. A squirrel leaps among the tall grass on a small embankment; I spy another on the far side of the maple trunk in the middle of our driveway. A tiny chipmunk bounces across the asphalt and then a splash of grey and white feathers swoop down the driveway 15 feet in front of me.

              Crumpled brown and green leaves are falling from the maple tree. It’s been ravaged by winter moths for several springs, so it sheds its leaves early. All around me are many shades and hues of late-summer green: forsythia, quince, maple, geranium, chrysanthemum.

          Several years ago, Jimmy and Beth, Johnston third-cousins from the Orkney Islands north of Scotland, visited America and stayed with us a few days. I was excited to host them and had visions of taking them up to the observation deck of the Prudential Building and along the red-brick Freedom Trail. But they had no interest in the big city. Jimmy is a retired lighthouse-keeper and loves the quiet life.

Their favorite activity (activity?) was sitting on this same kitchen porch and watching the squirrels cavort in the grass and trees. I think I understand better now. Sometimes watching squirrels is the best thing to do. And I appreciate the little critters more: there are no squirrels in the Orkneys. Imagine, having to travel to America to watch grey squirrels.

                                                    

              In my experience this week, I find that grief doesn’t ever get better, but the acute stage doesn't last as long. Reacting to Corey’s death, Cort’s widowerhood, and the newly-motherless children, I mourn for them and miss David. Today is the second anniversary of his burial and the 25^th month since his death. When I sob, it’s just as bad as it was that first night. But today I also bought groceries at Market Basket, walked three miles with my Austrian friend, Susanne, and showed her a Duolingo German lesson, my latest enthusiasm. I started an adult religion class and went to the temple. It’s been a full day; I’m living a full life. But the grief can break through at any moment, as it has this week. As Jim asked, “How did we ever get through it?” How will Cort?